Dark Side
by MitchPell
Summary: Part I of Daredevil: Genesis - Jack Murdock had a 24-31 record before he died. Not all of those wins were his.


Title: Daredevil: Genesis

Author: MitchPell

Disclaimer: I don't own anything that has to do with Daredevil, its characters, Marvel comics, Netflix, or the anything else that's related.

Author Notes: According to the Marvel Cinematic Universe Wiki, Matt was nine in September of 1993 and started his first year of law school with Foggy in September of 2010. Based on the fact that the most nine-year olds are in 4th grade, following a typical K-12 progression, and allowing for four years of undergrad, this would create a five year gap during which Matt **and** Foggy would not be in school. I could not account for this gap, so I've decided to alter the Daredevil related aspects of this timeline. All other major MCU events will have taken place as stated on the site's timeline.

Summary: Jack Murdock had a 24-31 record before he died. Not all of those wins were his.

Email: mitchpell 

**Part I:** **Dark Side**

Chapter One: Over There in the Shadows

Jack's arms felt like lead; weighed down with the fatigue of eight out of twelve long rounds. Each intake of breathe pulled across his battered ribs. Pop shouted into his ear what might pass for sound advice over the roar of the crowd, but Jack couldn't focus on the words. His back ached alongside his ribs, bruised from getting caught between the ropes and Anderson's jabs. Blood dripped down the side of his face from a cut above his swelling left eye. He was givin' as good as he got. They'd been trading blow for blow up to this point and Anderson was just as bloodied as he was, if not more. The only difference was that the other boxer had yet to hit the mat, whilst he'd kissed the canvas three times already. Anderson seemed almost unaffected by the twenty-four minutes of pounding he'd received. Jack felt like it was going to take all he had left just to get up off his stool and back into the ring.

"You listening to me, Murdock?" Pop demanded.

Jack nodded, even though the words had washed over him unheard. It didn't matter anyway; he knew what he had to do: stay off the ropes, avoid the right jab, watch for him to open up and then hit 'im hard, and for fuck's sake keep his gloves up. He spat out a mouthful of water, pink with blood, and took the mouth guard Sal shoved at him. Knowing and doing? Those were two completely different things and he doubted he could get his gloves up enough to protect his body, let alone his face. Truth was the odds were three-to-one against him.

Anderson was a true boxer; he was light on his feet and liked distance. He never let his opponent in close. He relied on speed, range, and endurance. He'd wear Jack down before he'd ever get him with a K.O.

Jack, on the other hand, was a brawler; not overly quick on his feet, but known for his power and chin. He could take Anderson's punches all twelve rounds before he'd go down for good. Anderson's endurance and technical skill versus his ability to take a beating, that's what it was going to come down to, and he intended to give the cocksucker everything he had despite the fact he wasn't supposed to win this fight.

The bell rang loud in his ear, signaling the start of the ninth. Jack forced himself to his feet. He walked across the mat to the center of the ring, banging his fists together in hopes of brushing off the fatigue and pumping some adrenaline back into his system. Anderson rose fluidly in comparison, practically bouncing towards Jack on the balls of his feet. The look on his face told Jack he thought he'd already won. Jack felt something raw awaken inside him as he watched that shit eating grin.

He was intimate with this darkness, this hot burning rage, this devil. He kept it buried deep inside him, back in the shadows of his mind, held in check by a short chain that he rarely unleashed. Sometimes...sometimes that chain broke and set his dark side free. When that happened, when he lost control, it was as if Jack took a back seat and the devil took over to unleash hell.

The referee threw up his arm, giving them permission to exchange blows. Anderson wasted no time; he was on Jack immediately, backing him into the rails and setting upon him with a fury of uppercuts to his midsection. Jack tightened his abdominals, in an effort to protect his ribs from the assault. Each blow strengthened the darkness within even as it weakened his body. Anderson was relentless and Jack felt his knees threaten to buckle; with no other option, he wrapped his arms around his opponent, pulling him into a clinch and pushing away from the ropes.

"You're mine, Murdock," Anderson hissed in his ear before the ref separated them.

They were no sooner forced apart, before the distance between them closed. Anderson abandoned all caution; confident in Jack's eminent defeat; and Jack did little to dissuade him. He stood hunched over, arms dropped as Anderson worked him over; his stomach tight in an effort to protect his abdomen, each blow adding fuel the devil's fury. He pulled to the left and a hard blow pummeled his mid back over the kidney. Jack cried out, the sound muffled by his mouth guard, before a right hook took him down, snapping the chain holding back the darkness.

He hit the mat hard, bouncing roughly off the ropes and onto the hard seemingly unyielding canvas. The roar of the crowd, the shouts from Pop and Sal, the count of the referee, all went silent; the pain that had radiated through his body numbed. His mind blanked as he pushed himself off the mat and back onto his feet.

Jack approached Anderson, his eyes cold and arms down at his side. Exposed.

The devil inside Jack had taken over.

Anderson faltered uncertainly, his guard lowered.

The devil smiled.

They danced around each other briefly; or rather Anderson danced as Jack stalked.

Anderson took a hesitant swing.

The jab connected, but it only served to fuel the devil. Anderson must have seen something of the beast in Jack's face then, because he retreated, one step behind the other, backing himself into the ropes.

Jack didn't remember moving, didn't remember lifting his arms to throw the punch; but he remembered the feeling of flesh yielding beneath his fists, he remembered the feeling of the blows reverberating up his arms into his shoulders.

It wasn't him though. He knew deep down it wasn't his fists and it wasn't his arms. He wasn't the one who stood over Anderson's prone body, armed raised in victory.


End file.
